


Castigation

by Miss M (missm)



Series: Two of a Kind [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Repression, Slurs, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3115583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That this abhorrent whelp should be the one to break his defences and tear down the carefully-constructed dams that held his unnatural passions at bay -- it was shameful. It was insupportable.</p><p>It was also, sadly, an unchangeable fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castigation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> A sequel of sorts to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/828990), where Montparnasse is a police spy and Javert has to work with him. Of course the inevitable happens. Thanks so much to Stripy for looking this over; all remaining issues are mine.

Javert hated everything about this. 

Before that fateful day when he had first let Montparnasse tempt him into perversion, he had never fully realised how much it was possible to want something while just as fervently wanting not to want it. But all it had taken was a moment of weakness for anger and lust, those primitive urges, to join forces and get the best of him. Then, once the deed was done, falling again was easier, for Montparnasse was still a spy, and M. Chabouillet still needed Javert to meet with him. 

And thus it happened that he, who had never been a slave of his own warped desires, nor to any kind of vice -- even his habit of snuff had never mastered him -- now found himself unable to gain any peace of mind, his body ruthlessly driving him towards the small cramped rooms of a street rat who fancied himself king of the underworld. 

Montparnasse, that smug thief of a tattler, who had offered his advice to the police out of greed: this despicable youth, with his corrupted mind and his effeminate manners, who had seen through Javert and spotted his weakness... That this abhorrent whelp should be the one to break his defences and tear down the carefully-constructed dams that held his unnatural passions at bay -- it was shameful. It was insupportable.

It was also, sadly, an unchangeable fact, and so he was now standing on the landing in the third floor of a shabby boarding-house, having managed to evade various lugubrious individuals on his way. He was hard already, his prick aching with impatient lust under his clothing, and as much as he could try to convince himself that this was all for Montparnasse's castigation, that shameless punk, he still knew a lie when he heard one.

Montparnasse opened the door, wearing a silken bathrobe with a floral pattern that made Javert purse his mouth in disgust. "You are a bit early," he said with an insufferable smirk. "But I suppose it can't be helped. I hope you didn't let anyone see you on your way?" 

"Of course not," Javert grunted, pushing past him. Montparnasse's cover was useful enough, at least in the eyes of Monsieur Chabouillet, that Javert would not be the one to ruin it. 

"Good. I'd hate for people to think my standards were going down." Montparnasse's eyes followed Javert as he took off his greatcoat. He could feel the hot gaze lingering at his crotch; to his annoyance, he hardened further. "Though I suppose they _are_ , or you wouldn't be here, would you?" 

"Shut up." 

Javert swiftly crossed the distance between them, crowding Montparnasse against the door so the thief had to lean back to look him in the eye. "Don't pretend," he said, the filthy words spilling out of him like they were coming from his deepest core, "that you're not hungry for it. That you haven't been hankering to get my cock inside you, ever since I was here last week. This is not a question of your taking pity on _me_. Understand?" 

Montparnasse licked his lower lip, glancing up at Javert through lowered lashes, and the little sod _knew_ what that gesture did to him, as evidenced by the way his mouth widened into a knowing grin. "You keep telling yourself that, old man. But it's true enough, I like your prick. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. So are you going to get on with it?" 

This last was muttered in a low voice, almost seductively, and Javert cursed himself for how his hands almost trembled as he pulled Montparnasse away from the wall, bending him over the nearby table, shoving him down face first. "Stay like this," he ordered, pulling the laughable robes off -- of course, Montparnasse was fully naked underneath. 

He kept one of his own hands on the small of the thief's back, working his trousers open with the other. Montparnasse was glancing back at him over his shoulder, again with those lashes lowered in a parody of coyness. His cheeks were pink now, his breath coming quickly, impatiently, as if he was truly eager for it, as if he couldn't wait to have Javert buried deep inside him, fucking him like a common slut, and that right there was proof of his depravity, for how perverted must one be to enjoy such a thing? 

He slid his hands over Montparnasse's bottom, cupping his arsecheeks, reluctantly admiring their sleek firmness. "That's it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "You filthy little catamite." 

Montparnasse grinned over his shoulder, raising his hips a little, pushing back against him. "Has age made you slow? Get on with it, I say." 

Discarding the uneasy feeling that he was obeying an order, Javert groped for the lamp on the table, wetting his fingers with oil. Sleeker than spit, and more comfortable for himself and Montparnasse both -- not that he worried too much about the latter; Montparnasse could certainly take care of his own comfort. He pushed both of his fingers inside, and Montparnasse groaned, though he took them easily, relaxing around the intrusion. "Careful, old man," he mumbled as Javert worked him open. "I'm still sore after yesterday." 

"I wasn't here yesterday," Javert said without thinking. Then realisation hit him, just a moment too late: of course Montparnasse, the little slut, had been fucked by someone else -- some giant brute, perhaps, like Gueulemer, or maybe that old masquerader Claquesous. The thought was simultaneously infuriating and arousing; for a moment he felt oddly shameful, as if he were part of a harem, something for Montparnasse to use and discard. Anger surged through him anew, and he twisted his hand, feeling a sick triumph as Montparnasse cried out, then clenched around his fingers. 

"Now," he said, that same triumph in his voice, clear to his own ears. "Shall I fuck you right away, or do you want to beg for it first?" 

"Beg?" Montparnasse actually had the nerve to laugh at that. "Well, that's rich! As if you weren't dying to put your prick inside me this very second." 

"Shut up," Javert snarled again, because Montparnasse was anything but wrong. 

He still held one trump, however: "As if you could ever bear to forgo a thing you want. I could button myself up and leave this very moment, if that suited me. But you?" He let his straining erection glide along Montparnasse's cleft, just enough to let him feel it. "You'd crawl after me, wouldn't you, on your hands and knees, begging for me to fill you..."

Montparnasse laughed again, though he sounded rather breathless. His thighs parted further, in blatant invitation. "You'd do well to stop talking and start doing, Inspector Prick." 

Javert pushed inside him then, momentarily speechless with outrage, and Montparnasse let out a long moan, relaxing around him without effort. "Oh yes, that's more like it..."

"You slut," Javert hissed as he sank deeper in, all the way, until he was buried to the hilt. How could Montparnasse, who took him so eagerly, still feel this blindingly hot and tight? "One of these days I'm going to teach you a proper lesson." 

"Can't wait," Montparnasse panted, his hands clawing for purchase on the table. "Yes, go on, more..." 

Javert pulled back, then drove back into him with as much force as he could muster, his hands tight on Montparnasse's hips, and Montparnasse arched his back. "God, yes, you've learned a thing or two, haven't you? Fuck," he groaned, "your prick is amazing -- too bad you're attached to it..."

"Shut up!" Javert barked, wishing the racing of his blood and the intense pleasure brought by every thrust wouldn't prevent him from finding a better retort. He sped up his movements, telling himself it would surely make Montparnasse go quiet, and if some vague part of his brain tried to suggest he was only doing what Montparnasse wanted him to do, that part was easily drowned out by the coarse desire throbbing in his veins. 

But Montparnasse wasn't easily silenced, and now Javert could hear the grin in his voice, even as he was panting, writhing in Javert's grip. "And isn't it a shame," he gasped, "that nobody's ever given this to you, that nobody ever looked twice at your stinky old hole. You've wanted that, I'll wager. You've wanted someone to bend you over and give you a pounding you'll never forget, to fill you and stretch you; you've wanted him to do every little thing you're doing to me now..." 

Another breathless laugh, another cheeky flash of tongue between those pink lips. "Who did you imagine, I wonder? Your superior? Or maybe one of your convicts, all those years ago?"

"Shut _up!_ " 

And to Javert's despair, it came out almost as a sob, for he had indeed entertained such notions -- terrible and shameful, they were, and so deeply buried that they never emerged except in vague dreams -- and how could Montparnasse know, or at least deduce such a thing about him? 

But now those words had been said, unlocking one of the few barriers that remained in him, and with horror he imagined himself bent over a desk, a fine mahogany one he still remembered, his trousers around his knees, held down by impossibly strong convict hands and filled with a parolebreaker's cock... 

It was too much; it overwhelmed him, and with a cry he spent himself, though his hips kept moving, jerking into Montparnasse as if of their own volition. Montparnasse arched against him, crying out in turn, then slumped over the table, gasping, those damn eyelashes fluttering down to rest on pink cheeks. 

Javert stayed in place for a moment, trying to regain his breath. In a last flash of imagination he pictured himself bent over, overcome, with rough hands stroking his hips... Then he jerked back and pulled away, remembering where he was and with whom, and Montparnasse heaved himself over to face him. "God," he muttered, passing a hand over his face, revulsion again overwhelming him. What sort of creature had he become? 

Montparnasse watched him languidly. He made no sign of trying to move or to retrieve his sorry excuse of a robe; obviously lounging naked on a table, thoroughly debauched, was what suited him best. "Not bad at all," he murmured, stretching a little. "Though this table is a little rickety. Next time I might let you into my bed, old man. Wouldn't you like that?" 

Again this intolerable smugness, like that of a master petting his dog. Javert fumbled to get his clothing back on, his hands trembling with sudden haste. 

At the door, he turned back, as if driven by some terrible instinct. Montparnasse had turned around and was now leaning against the table, his prick lying wet and spent against his thigh. He smiled as Javert's gaze landed on his body once more. "Take it easy until next week," he said with affected cheer. "Don't touch yourself too much, or you might not have anything left for me." 

"Shameless harlot," Javert said half-heartedly, knowing the insult would not hit home. "Who's to say I'll come back next week?" 

Montparnasse laughed, and the sound followed Javert on his way out, its very lightness the epitome of scorn; he descended the stairs quietly, the by now familiar feeling of sickness and shame heavy in his stomach, as if _he_ was the one who'd been had.


End file.
